


This Beloved Stigmata

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Short, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 10:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17641163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: She likes to leave a mark.





	This Beloved Stigmata

She likes to leave a mark. Her nails' red lines, the memory-mark of her teeth. Sometimes bruises, more than once the burn of rope. The Doctor bears these like stigmata, never breathes a word of protest. 

It's all too obvious why he accepts her punishments, even if she seeks retribution for other sins. His skin heals faster than his hearts, which irritates her and him for different reasons. She marks him with her impatience as though broken epidermis might effect epiphany. 

They are both selfish. She is slow when he wants to rush away from anger, hurried when he tries to delay the inevitable. He for his part craves attention, revels in having caused reaction. She's seen the steel sparkle in his eyes when he saves a world, and sees its echo when he watches her come. All that ego and he's still so desperate for some spoken reward. 

So sometimes she is silent. She presses her teeth into his skin and lets the creak of old wood and tired springs serve as soundtrack. Her silence punishes his, the thump of hearts and headboard a rebuke.

Tonight she is angry and loud, straddling his hips and pushing harder than he'd like. Her nails dig into his chest as she runs her hands over marks from their previous battles. _Remember me_ , her fingers insist, _suffer a little when all of this is over_. She always leaves a mark, a memory. When he took her from behind over an old desk her fingers etched tracks in the varnish, _Martha Was Here_ in some illiterate cuniform. Remembering, she speeds her movements and wishes her nails were sharper.

His own hands rest light on her hips, balancing not coaxing or controlling. Even like this he still pretends distance, makes her press and push until he is rendered honest by biology. As though he didn't need this, as though he were guileless. When she bites near his collarbone his touch is a feather's trail across her breasts. She twists, reaching to make him drop his pretenses, and he arches, thrusting to meet her as wordless truths tumble from his lips.

When she comes her mouth is on his and she bites copper and salt from his lips. He follows her with "Martha, Martha, Martha" and hoarse obscenities. She licks his wounds and lets him whisper tender lies about forever, more for his sake than for hers. He pretends they are something as simple as lovers, traces her tattoo and says that next time, next time, next time. 

When she sleeps she dreams of red grass and orange skies.


End file.
